You know the story about the man who goes to the rabbi to kvetch that his house is too small? The wise rabbi suggests that the man take in a parade of animals, one by one, until the man’s house is so noisy and crowded that he cannot hear the thoughts in his own head. To drive home his point, the rabbi then has the man remove the chicken and the duck and the goat in turn, until only the home’s original dwellers remain. Suddenly, the man feels like king of the castle in a house that is spacious and quiet, and to paraphrase Goldilocks, just right.
I imagine that our house is in no way as small as the one in the tale from the shtetl, but it also isn’t a palace. My boys who share a room would certainly prefer to have their own, and we’ve already discussed on these pages my longing for a kitchen that can accommodate a second sink (February 2012). My husband would like a study, and my youngest would like to build a sound-proof, explosion-resistant science lab. No one is asking for an indoor basketball court (well, yes, they are, but even they realize that’s a total fantasy). Still, each of us has a dream.
Plenty of luxurious homes have sprouted in our neighborhood, both before and since we moved in ten years ago. I always say I don’t envy them. But I mean it in the way you might say you want a sliver of cake, when what you really want is a big piece with an extra icing flower. Ultimately, though, you just don’t want the calories and you don’t want anyone to see you eating that much.
In all things, as with cake, after the sugar rush comes the reckoning. The clutter that could accrue in such a house is mind-blowing, not to mention the heating bill. Besides, I can hardly manage to clean up the footprint I have. Just the thought of keeping everything in its rightful place in so many rooms sends shivers up and down my spine. But having extra space for teenage boys to crawl into when they are in full-blown, extremely loud, testosterone-fueled mode, or the elbow room in which I can hide from it all? Wow. I mean, wow!
Then, this morning, as I began to set the table for Shabbos dinner, I had one of those I’ve-finally-figured-it-all-out moments. As always when we are not hosting guests, I positioned the plates for the five us all together at one end of the dining room table. My mind jumped to those massive, cordoned-off dining rooms the docent shows you when you tour a mansion. The rooms – and the tables – are always long enough for the family to have hosted an entire village. But when they were alone, they would spread out -- mom at one end, dad at the other, with a spattering of children on each side – and it always struck me as sad that there was so much unused space between them.
Space, it seems, is in many ways like money. I wouldn’t mind having more of it, but you really need only what you need. After all, we squish ourselves into our car each summer to drive thousands of miles together, and they are the best two weeks of our year.
Sooner than I want to acknowledge, the day will come when my boys, in turn, will pack up and move on to set up their own homes. And slowly, before we even realize it has happened, our home – without adding one square foot -- will begin to feel spacious, like the house in the village after the goat and the duck have packed their bags.
Suddenly, we’ll have plenty of room, but I imagine it will be too lonely to live with so much quiet.
Making My Days Happy with Decoupage
Sunday, October 27, 2013
Thursday, October 10, 2013
As If
This may seem to be a tale of woe, but it is, in fact, a tale of redemption.
For years, my boys have begged me to have another baby. One wanted triplet brothers, so he asked a neighbor traveling to Israel to put his written request between stones in the kotel. Even after finding out exactly how babies arrive in this world, the others repeated their wish for just one sister, as if the process were akin to placing an order for a burger and fries.
Without recognizing any disconnect, they decided that I should also return to full-time employment. The middle one is approaching high school and the eldest is looking his year in Israel and college in the eyes. Even in their cocooned little universe, they know that bigger bills loom on the horizon.
They insist, with full teenage bravado, that they really don’t need me much anymore anyway. They can surely stay home alone, know how to work the DVR much better than I ever will, and can microwave practically anything. The squeaky wheel among them should finally learn to manage on his own (he’s 11), the older two insist. It’s high time, they say.
Get out there! You can do it, Mom. We’ll help out more!
As if.
The youngest, who always shares his opinion, wisely kept out of the debate. They think they are independent, he whispered to me, until it rains and you have to drive them home from the bus stop.
Well, someone’s paying attention.
They all forget, of course, that my current assortment of part-time gigs, by necessity, replaced what had been a full-time job in the city. When one child simply needed more of me than that position and its commute allowed for over the course of a given day, something had to give. I may now be running hither and thither to multiple work environments, but I have the flexibility to manage their needs and complicated schedules. And, by the way, I enjoy what I do.
A few interesting things happened as the discussion gathered steam. I stood my ground on the baby thing (they were too young at the time, or still in utero, to remember my last difficult pregnancy). Yet the working full-time piece crawled under my skin. Admittedly, the boys had struck a nerve.
Now G-d has a sense of humor. It’s one of the things I love about Him. At exactly this time last year, the boys got what they asked for on both counts, though no one realized it at first. The opportunity to research and write the 100-year history of an international Jewish organization fell into my lap -- overnight. It suited me perfectly. I’d be exploring an amazing archive and putting together a book.
Although I was savvy enough to know the project wouldn’t be limited to the proscribed hours, I figured I could manage with a little juggling here and there. My family pledged to give me full support, so how could I say no?
We were all excited when I dove in head first and swam straight into what now rounded out a full-time schedule of part-time work. Through it all, I planned a bar mitzvah and carried on with the rest of my life. I did not miss one big moment on the home front. The boys only noticed when the little conveniences of having a flexible mother seemed to disappear one by one.
Still, I soon enough realized that I was sleeping very little and I missed spending regular time with my family.
Perhaps it was because it had all happened so suddenly, without giving me the chance to make accommodations that full-time work requires.
Perhaps it was because those promises the boys had made about picking up the slack around the house never came to fruition. Perhaps, too, they realized they’d gotten what they’d wished for and were licking their wounds.
Regardless, I realized that I was, essentially, having a baby. The gestation period stretched the usual nine months. It took its toll on my body and my psyche, like Invasion of the Body Snatchers. I was exhausted and could hardly move. I became grumpy when I needed quiet. A whole lot was happening to me at once.
The laundry piled up. The mail piled up. Completely out of character, the presence of clutter no longer bothered me, even when we were hosting company for Shabbos. Making dinner became negotiable, and I rationalized the fact that nachos were, in fact, a nutritious meal. Cereal and milk, too. Both offer protein and some combination of vitamins, right?
I even failed to make doctor appointments, to return calls, and to answer correspondence. I saw few friends. I wrote just a handful of articles and I posted my blog a lot less frequently.
One day this past July, my eldest texted to ask me if it were almost Pesach. There is no food in the house, he whined. When I wrote back, insistent that there was most definitely a bag of pancake mix in the pantry, he replied that alas, there were no eggs or milk in the refrigerator.
My husband, who works a 90+ hour work week, emailed me to say that he was proud of me, but he wanted his wife back. I missed him, too. Finally, our three boys shouted in unison, No one told you to go back to work!
Ha!
Well, I’ll tell you. I now fully understand why authors’ acknowledgements ooze with gratitude to their families. The writing of a book, as I now know well, takes on a life of its own.
Though it was rough for all of us here to go from where we had been in terms of my near-total flexibility to such a sudden, intense lack of it, I am hopeful that when the book arrives, the boys will be proud of their contribution to it. I believe fully in the project and am so thankful to the generous angel behind it and to the editor, who graciously appreciated that sometimes life gets in the way.
As my deadline loomed, one son had an accident and lost one and a half adult teeth, while twisting around a third. I wrote to my waiting boss, Sorry, chapter eight is on hold. Thank goodness, my son was fine and everything that really had to get done, both on the work and home fronts, did. All I could do was to stand back and wipe up the mess from the working mother’s paradox as I cleaned the blood off the living room floor.
Meanwhile, I delivered the baby last week. It is scheduled to ship out to China for publishing shortly. I’ve set to combing through the piles that have accrued to new heights around the house, and I have plans to cook a real mid-week dinner. As I make my way, I admittedly daydream about what it will feel like to hold the actual book in my hands this coming spring.
I scheduled date night with my husband. I will take my son to visit an aunt over his forthcoming school vacation and plan to strategize about redecorating the older boys’ bedroom in time for Chanukah. I’m meeting a friend for coffee, taking my regular morning walks, and writing my blog.
Yet the maternal amnesia that washed over me after my first two sons were born – the one that erases the less than pretty moments of childbirth so that we are willing to go through it again—has slowly begun to work its thing. Surely, too, the “me” that came out of hiding over the course of this year will likely not want to crawl back into her cave.
I will plan better in order to strike a better balance, but I’m definitely ready to have another “baby.”
For years, my boys have begged me to have another baby. One wanted triplet brothers, so he asked a neighbor traveling to Israel to put his written request between stones in the kotel. Even after finding out exactly how babies arrive in this world, the others repeated their wish for just one sister, as if the process were akin to placing an order for a burger and fries.
Without recognizing any disconnect, they decided that I should also return to full-time employment. The middle one is approaching high school and the eldest is looking his year in Israel and college in the eyes. Even in their cocooned little universe, they know that bigger bills loom on the horizon.
They insist, with full teenage bravado, that they really don’t need me much anymore anyway. They can surely stay home alone, know how to work the DVR much better than I ever will, and can microwave practically anything. The squeaky wheel among them should finally learn to manage on his own (he’s 11), the older two insist. It’s high time, they say.
Get out there! You can do it, Mom. We’ll help out more!
As if.
The youngest, who always shares his opinion, wisely kept out of the debate. They think they are independent, he whispered to me, until it rains and you have to drive them home from the bus stop.
Well, someone’s paying attention.
They all forget, of course, that my current assortment of part-time gigs, by necessity, replaced what had been a full-time job in the city. When one child simply needed more of me than that position and its commute allowed for over the course of a given day, something had to give. I may now be running hither and thither to multiple work environments, but I have the flexibility to manage their needs and complicated schedules. And, by the way, I enjoy what I do.
A few interesting things happened as the discussion gathered steam. I stood my ground on the baby thing (they were too young at the time, or still in utero, to remember my last difficult pregnancy). Yet the working full-time piece crawled under my skin. Admittedly, the boys had struck a nerve.
Now G-d has a sense of humor. It’s one of the things I love about Him. At exactly this time last year, the boys got what they asked for on both counts, though no one realized it at first. The opportunity to research and write the 100-year history of an international Jewish organization fell into my lap -- overnight. It suited me perfectly. I’d be exploring an amazing archive and putting together a book.
Although I was savvy enough to know the project wouldn’t be limited to the proscribed hours, I figured I could manage with a little juggling here and there. My family pledged to give me full support, so how could I say no?
We were all excited when I dove in head first and swam straight into what now rounded out a full-time schedule of part-time work. Through it all, I planned a bar mitzvah and carried on with the rest of my life. I did not miss one big moment on the home front. The boys only noticed when the little conveniences of having a flexible mother seemed to disappear one by one.
Still, I soon enough realized that I was sleeping very little and I missed spending regular time with my family.
Perhaps it was because it had all happened so suddenly, without giving me the chance to make accommodations that full-time work requires.
Perhaps it was because those promises the boys had made about picking up the slack around the house never came to fruition. Perhaps, too, they realized they’d gotten what they’d wished for and were licking their wounds.
Regardless, I realized that I was, essentially, having a baby. The gestation period stretched the usual nine months. It took its toll on my body and my psyche, like Invasion of the Body Snatchers. I was exhausted and could hardly move. I became grumpy when I needed quiet. A whole lot was happening to me at once.
The laundry piled up. The mail piled up. Completely out of character, the presence of clutter no longer bothered me, even when we were hosting company for Shabbos. Making dinner became negotiable, and I rationalized the fact that nachos were, in fact, a nutritious meal. Cereal and milk, too. Both offer protein and some combination of vitamins, right?
I even failed to make doctor appointments, to return calls, and to answer correspondence. I saw few friends. I wrote just a handful of articles and I posted my blog a lot less frequently.
One day this past July, my eldest texted to ask me if it were almost Pesach. There is no food in the house, he whined. When I wrote back, insistent that there was most definitely a bag of pancake mix in the pantry, he replied that alas, there were no eggs or milk in the refrigerator.
My husband, who works a 90+ hour work week, emailed me to say that he was proud of me, but he wanted his wife back. I missed him, too. Finally, our three boys shouted in unison, No one told you to go back to work!
Ha!
Well, I’ll tell you. I now fully understand why authors’ acknowledgements ooze with gratitude to their families. The writing of a book, as I now know well, takes on a life of its own.
Though it was rough for all of us here to go from where we had been in terms of my near-total flexibility to such a sudden, intense lack of it, I am hopeful that when the book arrives, the boys will be proud of their contribution to it. I believe fully in the project and am so thankful to the generous angel behind it and to the editor, who graciously appreciated that sometimes life gets in the way.
As my deadline loomed, one son had an accident and lost one and a half adult teeth, while twisting around a third. I wrote to my waiting boss, Sorry, chapter eight is on hold. Thank goodness, my son was fine and everything that really had to get done, both on the work and home fronts, did. All I could do was to stand back and wipe up the mess from the working mother’s paradox as I cleaned the blood off the living room floor.
Meanwhile, I delivered the baby last week. It is scheduled to ship out to China for publishing shortly. I’ve set to combing through the piles that have accrued to new heights around the house, and I have plans to cook a real mid-week dinner. As I make my way, I admittedly daydream about what it will feel like to hold the actual book in my hands this coming spring.
I scheduled date night with my husband. I will take my son to visit an aunt over his forthcoming school vacation and plan to strategize about redecorating the older boys’ bedroom in time for Chanukah. I’m meeting a friend for coffee, taking my regular morning walks, and writing my blog.
Yet the maternal amnesia that washed over me after my first two sons were born – the one that erases the less than pretty moments of childbirth so that we are willing to go through it again—has slowly begun to work its thing. Surely, too, the “me” that came out of hiding over the course of this year will likely not want to crawl back into her cave.
I will plan better in order to strike a better balance, but I’m definitely ready to have another “baby.”
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